If the cup of the sky is poison-measuring

It is like halva on the lips of lovers

If you went from your place from this event

Go from your place, for the place is here

Do not flee from the burning of love, for

Other than the fire of love, there is smoke and melancholy

Smoke will not cook you, it will blacken you

In your cooking, it is fire that is the master

The moth that turns around smoke

Is smoke-stained, raw, and disgraced

He does not remember home and dwelling

For whom such a journey is prepared

Do not speak of the city, for in the wilderness

Moses is my companion, and manna and quail

What conversation do you make, for in your sickness

Every moment your physician is Christ

I am happy to be distressed, for in spaciousness

Every buffoon has a way and room

When the house of the heart becomes narrow from sorrow

The heart-cherishing king is alone within it

The heart is narrow, nothing but him fits

The narrowness of my heart is safety and tumult

The enemy's teeth are blunted from fear

Therefore, sour-facedness is our liberation

Be silent, for the sea, even if it is sour-faced

Is also a mine of jewels and a sea